


Silhouette

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Poetry, Romance, Silhouette-Making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 13:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Though his father objects, Arthur wants to become a poet, not a lawyer. Moving from London to the country, he finds his muse, in more way than one.





	Silhouette

London, 1774

 

The words rested on the page, the rhythm of them escalating towards a lyrical crescendo Arthur thought pleased him. They were heart-felt and honest though not particularly piercing. They didn't resonate, but they were at least solid terms, the poetic language refined and pretty. They would have to be better; he would need to touch the soul of the reader if he wanted to set a mark, leave a lasting impression. But he had time for improvements. Having just graduated from Oxford, he had the future in front of him. Blotting the ink and blowing on it, he leant back against the chair, when a slight knock on the door ushered in the maid. 

She curtsied, twisting at her apron as she demurely looked down. “You've a visit, sir.”

“A visit, Drea?” Arthur threw a glance at his mantelpiece clock. It was past eight in the evening and though time for social calling was not past yet, he would have thought he'd get no more visitors now the day was winding down. 

“His excellency, your father,” the maid said.

Arthur's father was no 'excellency', but it seemed Drea felt safer apostrophising him so. She must have a natural dread of Father's strict demeanour that made her recoil at sight of him. 

Uther Pendragon entered. He was wearing sober, functional clothes that were nevertheless of good quality. His cravat was the exception to the rule. It was silken and ample, a touch decadent in the way it was arranged around his neck. Otherwise there was no concession to fashion in Arthur's Father's attire. He was no beau and didn't meant to come across as such.

“Arthur,” Father said.

Arthur didn't particularly want to know but he still asked, “To what do I owe the visit?”

Father took the room briefly in, before deciding to settle in one of the armchairs. He crossed his legs and placed both hands on his top knee. “Can't one pay a visit to one's own son?”

“Of course.” Arthur looked around, adjusting his own clothes, feeling his father's scrutiny fiercely. “Shall I ask Drea to make some tea?”

Father assented with a nod of the head. As they waited for Drea to come up with their beverages, they talked about the weather, the London' season, and a few practical matters that needed attending. When Drea bustled in with the tea things, Father closed himself in a stiff silence, which he only released once the girl was gone. At first Father busied himself with sipping slowly, but by and by he started talking. “You've recently graduated, Arthur.”

They both knew that. This was an opener in Father's mind clearly. Arthur was circumspect. “Indeed.”

“Don't you think it high time for you to take steps to enter the profession your tuition has prepared you for?”

Arthur froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“You should go into the Inns of Court,” Father said, putting away his cup and dusting his lap as though there were crumbs on it. There weren't. He had made a point of not touching the biscuits Drea had served with the tea. “My dear old friend Aeredian says he can guarantee you will be called to the bar within a year. You could work for him then.”

Arthur ordered his thoughts. He needed to be calm in order to face his Father. “Father, I had something different in mind.”

“Different?” Father arched his eyebrows. It was not a moue of surprise, rather of disapproval.

“I have published a drama.” Not many copies were in circulation, but Arthur was proud of those that were. “I mean to be an author.”

“An author.” The words were spoken with clear distaste. “You want to write for a living!”

Arthur ducked his head. “I do. Thanks to my three act drama, I have acquired a readership and I intend to cultivate it. I'm writing some poems now as well.” Arthur didn't say they weren't quite perfect, nor ready for public consumption. He focused on their existence, on their being a probable source of income. Father wouldn't otherwise care. “I'm sure some publishing house or other will take them on.”

“Writing isn't a profession, Arthur.” Father uncrossed his legs, placing both feet firmly on the floor. “It's a hobby.”

“I'll have to contradict you there, Father,” Arthur said. “Samuel Johnson, Thomas Percy, Oliver Goldsmith all write and live on it.”

“They may do as they please since they're no sons of mine.” Father's facial muscles tightened. “You won't embark in such a fickle adventure. It's got no future. It's subject to the whims of the public. There's no real respectability in it.”

“But many writers are respectable.” Arthur didn't dare say what he thought, that respectability alone was worthless, that the pursuit of art and passion were by far more necessary to the spirit than adherence to a set of social rules. “Many are looked upon with reverence.”

“Only a few!” Father said, “after they've toiled all their life for little recognition and paltry fees. No, Arthur. You will be a lawyer like your grandfather.”

That was the last thing Arthur wanted. He needed to cut a path out for himself. He meant to carve a role out for himself, one that fit his disposition and character. “My love of poetry--”

“Your love of poetry be damned!” Father stood. “I won't argue about it. You won't be a penny-a-day scrivener. You won't waste your time like that.”

“Art is never a waste.” Arthur ought have to kept his own counsel, but couldn't quite. He supposed wisdom came with age and he was as yet too young for it.

“Beware.” Father lifted an index finger. “I'll cut you off.”

Arthur hadn't wanted to come to this. His father helped with his income, rendering his attempts at poetry easier. But surrendering the latter in the name of the former was sheer lunacy when his objective was becoming an author. “So be it, Father.”

“You dare oppose yourself to me!” Father scoffed. “Tell me how will you keep your servants. How will you keep this house without my help?”

Arthur knew he'd have to sacrifice both. “I have some money of my own.” Which wouldn't go as far as supporting him in London. “I can move to the country.” Most poets benefited from contact with the natural world. Their diction improved. “I can cut corners.”

Father huffed. “You'll come back running and pleading to be reinstated.”

Arthur had no intention of doing so. He wanted to establish himself as a poet, find his way. His father might have helped in the achieving of such objectives, but he didn't need him. He was his own man. “I won't.”

“My threats are serious, Arthur.” 

“So are mine.” They were both Pendragons. Neither of them spoke idly, Arthur knew.

“Well, then.” Though his tone had quietened, Father made fists of his hands. “Consider yourself cut off. Good day to you.”

So saying, he left without letting the door hit the frame too hard.

 

**** 

Arthur gave notice to his servants and started exchanging letters with his friend Leon, who lived in the country, out in Hertfordshire. By the fourth exchange, Arthur had found lodgings in that county and had made strides towards moving there. His London furniture he sold so he'd have money to live on before he made a splash in publishing. On his last day in the capital, he gathered his young friends and they toasted the future.

“To Arthur,” Percival said, “who's daring to go to the country and live the idyllic life.”

“Hear, hear.” Gwaine raised his glass. “To Arthur, our rural hero!”

Arthur drank and toasted his friends back. He sang and composed poetry rhymes he knew he wouldn't remember come the morrow. He let himself be celebrated and thought wistfully of this. moment, his last in the city. 

The next day Arthur took the coach that would take him to Stevenage and thence to the village of Camelot. The conveyance was black and solid, the passengers many. There was a curate sporting his collar, who talked divinity from the moment Arthur alighted. A boy of about fifteen or thereabouts sulked his way through a tome of Latin. A young couple held hands. She had dark hair swept to the side; her hands were finely gloved, while his were bare. “Do you think Camelot will be fine, Owain?” she asked the man Arthur thought was her husband. “I can't stop thinking about it.”

“We'll find out in due time, Mithian,” Owain said, as he looked at the countryside rolling past their window.

Lured in by their conversation, Arthur said, “Camelot, am I right in supposing you're moving there?”

“You're not wrong, sir.” Owain's answer was prompt. “We will soon indeed be able to call Camelot home.”

“I'm settling there myself.” Arthur had no reason to hide that. He was quite proud of his new plans for his life. He was brimming with excitement about the possibilities the new location would open up. He was going to fulfil his purpose; prove that he was right, that his future could be one of his choice.

“That's such a lovely coincidence.” Mithian patted her husband's hand. “We're newly married and looking for friends in our new neighbourhood.”

“Congratulations.” Arthur was honest with them. As a poet, he believed in love. Though he had never experienced the true feeling himself, he stood by it and celebrated it when he encountered it. 

“Thank you.” The couple, clearly finely attuned, spoke in unison. 

Arthur shrugged off their thanks with nonchalance.

“We are so looking forward to exploring this new part of the country,” Mithian said. “That has been our plan. Now that we know you're going to be there too, we can do some of that together. If you don't mind our company, that is.”

Arthur told them he was happy to make their acquaintance. He confessed that while he was glad to be moving from London he had feared not knowing anyone in Camelot.

“That's the same for us.” Mithian sought her husband's gaze. “We're in sore need of friends.”

“Then I hope I shall be one.”

The journey wasn't long, but it was slow. They stopped at an inn for lunch. The boy ate for two. Mithian and Owain shared the contents of their plates. The reverend was moderate in his choices and Arthur had grilled chicken. The plate wasn't large but it was flavourful in the way of country things. By the time he was done with his meal, Arthur was at least sated. They started again a while later. The coach stopped at a country crossroads, at which the boy alighted, and then in Stevenage, where the reverend hopped off.

By the time they got to Camelot only Arthur and the newly weds were on board. They all got off in the main square, which was surrounded by low houses sporting gardens in their front. They parted amicably, promising to look each other up quite soon, then each wended their way towards their new home.

By going rural Arthur had wanted to make a change in his life. While the new set up had been prompted by his father, Arthur hadn't wanted to go half way. Though Camelot was a small village in and of itself, Arthur had chosen an abode that stood some way off from it. The cottage was small. It had a green door, a turf roof and sash windows overlooking flowerbeds. 

When he got to it, Arthur put his valise down and knocked. 

“Door's open,” a man said.

Arthur stepped in. Two rooms opened one after another. One was a kitchen cum parlour, the other a living room that seemed to have a bed in it. Rifling the contents of a portmanteau was a man in his twenties. His back was broad if not overly so; his hair dark and curly. He turned around when he heard Arthur, showing a young, unlined face, and blue eyes. “You must be Arthur.-”

“You must be Mordred.” There was no other conclusion to be drawn.

“Indeed.” Mordred reached out a hand, which Arthur shook. “Welcome to your new place.”

Arthur set down his valise and had a look around. A variety of objects lay scattered across the living room tables. Newspapers sat on chairs and piles of books lay across the window sill. Odds and ends littered the tops of most pieces of furniture, while mismatched crockery adorned their surfaces. Of dust, though, there was none. A few wooden sculptures sat on fake marble plinths or on oak bases. “It's a nice place.”

“I'll show you your room,” Mordred said, climbing the step leading into the adjacent room.

The room was dark until Mordred drew the curtains back. A bed sat alongside the window, while a chest of drawers stood opposite. Pitcher and ewer lay on top of a tall wooden stool with two rungs in it. Trunks had been moved up against the wall for containment space. 

“It'll be perfect.” Arthur could adjust to this place. It wasn't so large or as elegant as his London home, and he would have to learn to share, but it was what he could afford on his new means and he meant to make it work. “We'll get along.”

Mordred smiled. “I'm sure we will.”

 

***** 

 

Arthur made himself at home. He emptied his valise, put his clothes in drawers and trunks, and his other possessions on the shelves. He flung himself on the bed and arranged it to his liking. When he felt comfortable, he took out his writing things and started composing. The country was quiet. He suffered no interruptions, not even in the shape of Mordred, for he was working on his sculptures.

Even so Arthur couldn't write. Oh he had words to show for his pains. He had plenty of words. But none of them resonated the way he wanted them to. His output was poor, poorer than it had been in London even. The move had been supposed to inspire him, but so far he hadn't produced a single worth while rhyme 

He told himself he could fiddle with them until he had something to show. But he wasn't sure even industry could save his verses today. Writing would not do, not now, not when he wasn't in touch with his poetic soul. He needed to find that part of himself again. If he wanted to express himself properly, he needed to tell truths he wasn't equipped to find right now.

He knew he had to get in touch with his inner world in order to be a good poet. He was only aware of one single way to get back to that state of self-knowledge. He needed nature. While he was out in the country, he was still cooped up in his home. He had to get in touch with the wild. Persuaded this was the only way, he picked up his walking stick and left the premises.

Given the lonely location of his house, he was soon deep in the fields, vistas of green rolling out before him. He made good pace, his stick punctuating his rhythm, avoiding hedges and holes. He passed by pasture fields and left behind barns and stables. He climbed towards the closet hillock and then stood admiring the valley that opened up before him. Though it was late in the day a mist fogged up the view, vapour teeming around him, as sunlight flooded the area through the cover of trees.

Arthur lay down in the tall grass by the trickling stream and watched nature's display, the way plants rigged themselves out and insects buzzed about from plant to plant. As he reposed, he let himself think about creation and his own place in it. He surely felt the hand of the divine in what he saw, but he didn't know how it affected him, how it explained his own presence in this bower. 

He felt a deep seated love in nature; he understood the eternity of the moment he was participating in. It was like falling for a lover, being part of heaven and earth, a particle of the universe that couldn't be cut off from the whole. It was a powerful experience. He was full of longing for the whole; he felt himself moving at the fringes of it. 

He wished he could put this into words; make his emotions clear on paper. But though he felt deeply, he couldn't vocalise his thoughts.

He'd have to be content with enjoying the moment, the dying warmth of the day, the beauty of his new surroundings. It made him think of legends, of faeries and immortal creatures, of Titania and of Mab, of a mystical world he could perhaps glimpse if he was attuned to nature more. He heard the waters of the stream slosh by and he thought of nymphs and other spirits. He pictured them as they caroused along the water courses that fed the country.

Lulled by these images, he fell asleep. When he woke it was nearly evening and he realised he'd idled away most of the day. Dusting himself off, he picked himself up and directed his steps back the way he'd come. 

He was cutting through the village when he met Owain and Mithian. 

Arthur took off his hat. “What a pleasure meeting you again.”

“Likewise,” said Owain, doffing his own tricorne. “We were just talking about you.”

Mithian nodded. “Indeed.”

“Oh, I see.” Arthur hadn't expected as much. “I'm flattered.”

“We meant to invite you to the party we're giving to celebrate our move to Camelot,” Mithian said. “The house won't be what it ought to be for a long time to come yet, but we don't mind so much. We want to entertain and make friends. I hope you'll come.”

Arthur bowed. “I'll be delighted to.”

“Then be at our place next week.” Owain looked pleased. “Roundabout eight.”

“I'll be there.”

**** 

The house Mithian and Owain lived in was three-story tall and had a stone facade. It stood a street away from the main square and, being taller than most buildings in Camelot, afforded a partial view of it.

By the time Arthur arrived, the party had already started. Music wafted from the open door and people milled in from the entrance. Arthur gave his walking stick and hat to the valet and moved past the hall and into a salon. 

A grand piano loomed in one corner, music sheets open on a stand. Furniture had been removed from the centre of the room and now lined the aisles. People either sat on chairs and stood, some danced to the music coming from the small orchestra decked out along the north side of the space. 

Arthur made a beeline for the owners, who were at present disengaged.

“Arthur!” Owain bowed to him and Mithian made a curtsy. “It's such a pleasure to have you here.”

“I wouldn't have stayed at home for the world.”

“I'm glad we could command your time and attention.” Mithian played with the rosette on her wrist. “I hope you'll enjoy yourself here with us.”

“I'm looking forward to making the acquaintance of my fellow villagers.”

Owain said, “We invited most of Camelot.”

“Did most of Camelot accept the invitation?”

Mithian looked around. The salon was full of people of different sorts; men and women, young people and the elderly. They were arrayed in clothing that went from the simple to the extremely ornate. “I'm afraid the oldest families in the neighbourhood declined, but everyone else is here.”

“Apparently you don't get many parties here.” Owain rolled his eyes. “Aside from those the assembly gives once or twice a year.”

“I suppose I'll have to do my utmost and use the opportunity to socialise.” Arthur was only half joking. Aside from his current hosts and Mordred, Arthur knew nobody in Camelot. While he wasn't the most expansive of fellows, he liked company. In London he had had a circle of like-minded people, which he lacked here. He hadn't been long in Camelot, that was true, but he needed people to share his ideas with. He could be no poet without humankind. 

Once Mithian and Owain had moved on to their next guests, Arthur made it to the refreshment table. He hadn't dined yet and the spread looked inviting. He had moved over to it and inspected it for interesting food, when someone bumped into him, spilling the wine from their glass all over Arthur's front.

“Would you watch where you're going!” Arthur barked.

The man who had caused the accident was young, dark-haired, blue-eyed, a naïve expression etched on his face. When he realised the damage he had caused, he covered his mouth with his palm. “I'm so sorry. Look, I'll--” He picked up a napkin and started dabbing the stain. “I'll remove it. Your shirt will look as good as new.”

“I highly doubt it.” Arthur watched as, rather than being contained, the stain spread. “It's worse.”

The man looked at the Arthur's shirt and appeared sheepish. “Yes, well--” He put down the offending glass. “I just haven't concentrated on it hard enough. A bit more effort and--”

But the purple splatter only got bigger, its contours wider. Arthur tried to intercept the man's hands to stop him from doing any more damage, but the blasted fellow seemed to have tentacles. All right, not tentacles as such for his hands were elegant and spindly, but certainly busy paws that seemed to range everywhere, touching Arthur's chest with no compunction. “Will you stop!”

The man stepped back. His eyes had grown rounder and contrition showed on his face, which got redder. He kept biting his lips as if this would help him say something that was anyway helpful. At last he settled for, “I can give you one of my shirts.”

“What!” Arthur had no idea what this man was planning to do. Either way it sounded like utter madness.

“I live nearby,” the man said, as though that was obvious. “We can dash to my place and I can lend you one of my shirts. It won't be fine, I mean, probably not as nice as yours, but it will do, and you can be back here in less than five minutes.”

Now that it was more clearly expounded, the idea didn't sound half so bad. Arthur couldn't continue to parade himself at Mithian and Owain's with a stained shirt. But neither did he like the idea of going home for the night. With his cottage half in the country, retiring would have amounted to that. “I'm going to accept.”

The man smiled and sighed with clear relief. “Come with me,” he said.

They left by way of the atrium without picking up their canes and overcoats. The evening was, however, mild and allowed for such behaviour. Stars shone in the sky and there was no wind to speak of. 

The man had been right. His house was but a lane away from Mithian and Owaine's abode. It was by far a smaller place then theirs, amounting to little more than a bungalow, though it was a large one as far as those came. He opened the door without using keys and called out, “Freya, I'm in with a guest.”

“Fine, Merlin,” Freya called out from one of the rooms. “I've put the children to sleep already. You won't be disturbed.”

Arthur hesitated then. He'd supposed Merlin was a single man when he'd accepted his offer. He hadn't thought he would be intruding on his wife and children.

Merlin noticed. “What's the matter? Won't you get your shirt off?”

Arthur sidled from foot to foot. “I didn't mean to disturb your wife.”

Merlin cupped the side of his face and laughed. “Freya's not my wife. She's my sister. But somehow everyone makes the same mistake.”

Arthur felt relieved. If Freya were the wife, this situation would have been much more awkward. A sister, he somehow believed, would accept more than a wife would. “Still, I wouldn't want to put her out.”

“You'll be doing no such thing.” Merlin rifled a drawer and found a shirt. It was white and flowing, with soft long sleeves. It wasn't silken, but it seemed sturdy and looked nice. Size-wise it would fit Arthur. If it had been trousers he wouldn't have been able to share clothes with Merlin, but a shirt would pass. “Here, try it on.”

Arthur fiddled with one of his buttons. “I, er--”

“Please.” Merlin made a show of the shirt. “Don't stand on ceremony.”

Arthur could see how that wouldn't be helpful. He still was in the same situation as before. Either he went back home with his stained shirt or he changed now. Since he still wanted to enjoy the rest of his evening, he had little choice. He merely hoped Merlin's sister wouldn't mind his presence too much. Towards Merlin he felt less compunction; he was the one who had, after all, put him in this situation. “I'll change.” Arthur took the shirt.

Merlin smiled wide. “Good. We have no screen in this room. Freya's the only one to have one. I'll wait in the other room.”

Arthur wouldn't have minded Merlin's presence. This wouldn't have been the first time he changed in front of another man. It wouldn't have been the first time he shared intimacy with another man either. No, Arthur had memories of fond moments shared with members of his own sex; of afternoons brimming with love, of hours counted in breaths. But this had no bearing to the present moment. He surely didn't see Merlin that way. Merlin had given him no signal and he was just the clumsy fellow who'd ruined his shirt. Still, Arthur wouldn't have cared if he stayed. But Merlin went to the other room before Arthur could say something. 

Arthur shrugged off his coat, undid his cravat at the collar and pulled off his shirt. While he did so he had a look around the room. It was of moderate size but appeared smaller because of the cluster of furniture. More divans and armchairs occupied it than ought to have done. Along the wall a myriad of frames hung, set around silhouettes. They represented different people and animals. A few were of children. Almost no space was left bare.

As he changed, Arthur wondered why there were so many. It was certainly a strange decorating option. Arthur was doing his buttons up when Merlin called from the other room, “Are you doing well in there?”

“Oh, yes.” Arthur finished up with his shirt. “Do come in.”

Merlin stepped back inside. He gave Arthur a long once over, taking him in from head to toe even though Arthur had only changed tops. “It looks better on you than it does on me.”

“I'm sure not.” Arthur didn't only say it to be polite. He meant it. Merlin might be clumsy but he wasn't bad looking. He had broad shoulders, a nice chest, perhaps not one defined by muscles in the way of Greek statues, but he did look pleasant, like a cup-bearer in a mythological painting, slim and tall, with a linear frame about him. “But thank you nonetheless.”

Merlin ruffled his own hair. “You're welcome.”

With Arthur changed, they returned to the party at Mithian and Owain's. Though there was some awkwardness, they had started a dialogue between them, one that didn't cease as the hours passed. Though it suffered some interruptions – Arthur took some time out to dance with a few young ladies – he always went back for more conversation. 

They didn't discuss politics or the state of the world but themselves. Arthur told Merlin that he'd just come from London and was adapting to country life. “It doesn't seem uneventful,” he said, referring to the party. “I hope I'll make the most of it.”

“You'll enjoy it.” Merlin seemed sure of it. “I know I do.”

“I hope I will.” Arthur had no opinion as of yet. But he was optimistic. There was so much he could achieve here.

“I know it looks as though you exchanged a bustling haven of commerce for a place that thrives on quiet farming, but you can do business here all the same.” Merlin's face sharpened.

“It sounds as though you were speaking from experience.” Arthur had that very firm impression.

“In a way I am.” Merlin shrugged his shoulders. “I make silhouettes. I sell them to whoever wants them. You'd think I'd have no business here. But you'd be surprised how many people want some kind of passing likeness to hang by their hearths. Even though we're in the country.”

That explained a thing or two about Merlin's home. “Well.” Arthur grabbed a glass from a waiter. “To industry, in the country as well as in the city!”

Merlin took hold of a glass of his own. “I'll drink to that. And to happiness. May you find it in Camelot.”

Trying to hide how that phrase touched him, Arthur drank quickly. It got a little to his head but thankfully the evening was mostly over.

 

**** 

The following morning Arthur drank plenty of water, had a hearty breakfast, and sat at the parlour table to write. It was an impromptu positioning, that had none of the comfort of Arthur's London desk, but for some reason the words came easy.

He had had a burst of an idea the day before, an inkling of what he meant to write about. During the course of the evening he had forgotten about it, but with the morning, and clarity, the notion had presented itself again.

When he'd seen Merlin he'd thought of cup-bearers and mythology, so he now wrote about Ganymede, son of Tros and Callirrhoe, the youth Zeus abducted to serve as the gods' cup-bearer. Ganymede tended sheep, enjoying the beauty of nature and of the day, letting the sun cherish his limbs and lull him to sleep, when he met a man. It was really Zeus, who, enraptured by his form, came to have a closer look at him. What he saw contented him, so he blandished the young man, persuaded him, took him with him to mount Olympus, giving him immortality, making sure he would always look the way he did when Zeus had first spied him from the heavens. On Olympus Ganymede served the gods but never relinquished his shepherd's pride, and his beauty stayed the same, always.

By the time Arthur was done, his back hurt from staying bent over the page, and his hand had cramped, but he was happy with the results he had. His poetry flowed; his verses sang. The words he'd chosen sounded right, as if they had found the right place to be. He coined a couple too. While he wouldn't always want to use the classics as a spring board, he was satisfied with doing it this time only. He'd rather speak of nature and its contact with the soul, but he could not always choose. Sometimes he had to let inspiration do the work for him. Knowing he would have no need to revise his poem, Arthur blotted the paper and picked himself up. 

He had done his duty for the day, he'd actually been more productive than he had in a while, and now sought some time to relax. He knew that he needed a walk, so he took his cane, his redingote, and calling out to Mordred, who had just woken, left for his morning traipse.

Seeing as the day was fine, with pale but constant sunshine glimmering on, he made his pace slow. Since he didn't know the area quite well, he took a route he already knew, and made for the stream he had seen before. It was a quiet and lonesome spot, perfect for communing with nature, and for enjoying some repose.

As he walked, his attention lingered on the sights he saw. The way the breeze shook the red and yellow flowers that grew at the edge of the road, the way insects moved from from one to another, sucking pollen. As he marched, his boots lifted off a sandy, grainy dust that thickened the air at the level of his heels. Swallows flew overhead, repairing onto branches that stuck out towards the sky, blossoms greening their lengths.

By and by he came upon the spot he'd previously found. But it wasn't empty of humanity. Merlin sat by the bank of the stream, perching on a jutting rock, angling, whistling a sweet tune that chased itself into nothingness.

When Arthur moved, the grass rustled and that alerted Merlin to his presence. “Arthur,” he said, “good day.”

“I hope I'm not intruding.”

Merlin's eyebrows pinched together. “What, no! This is common land, open to everyone.”

“I just thought perhaps this was a favourite spot.” Arthur played with the hat he had doffed.

“It is.” Merlin looked at the stream's bubbling waters with a smile. He concentrated on the concentric rings that expanded around the fishing hook, the leaf that fell from a branch and landed on water, to be transported by the current. “All the more reason to share it.” He made way for Arthur to take a seat on the same rock he'd appropriated. 

Arthur moved closer but stopped short of sitting down next to him. “I'm much more proprietorial when it comes to my favourite spots.”

“I'm not.” Merlin read his face and probably understood its emotions, for he said, “I love sharing. In fact places become more beautiful once they're attached to the memory of a person.”

Arthur sat next to Merlin. “So you don't think nature can impact men as much as people can one another?”

“The thought that it can is all the rage,” Merlin said. “But I prefer mankind.”

“I'm not a recluse.” Arthur didn't want Merlin to think that. Even his hesitance to come and share this spot with Merlin might be read the wrong way. He hadn't faltered because he didn't like the society of his fellow men, but rather because he hadn't wanted to interrupt Merlin in what he'd perceived as a private moment. “I enjoy company most of the time.”

“I enjoy company all of the time.” As something snagged on his hook, Merlin bit his bottom lip, pulling harder on his fishing rod. The fish jumped out of the water and twisted in the air. It was a big one, its scales shining in the sun, its mouth agape where the line ended. “It's my business too.”

“I forgot you took likenesses.”

“Silhouettes.” Merlin unhooked the fish and set it in a pail. His prey squiggled and fiercely flopped, thrashing around in the small confines of the canister. “There's a difference in technique.”

“I'm sure.” At his best Arthur was proud of his words, but he was no visual artist. He had never been able to draw nor to take any type of likeness, be that a portrait or a silhouette as Merlin did. “I hear they're quite fashionable too.”

“You think that's why I take them?” Merlin asked. “In a spirit of commerce?”

“Even artists must live.” Arthur had a clear knowledge of that. It was half the reason he was here. His Father had cut him off because he didn't think there was any future in being a creator. “There'd be nothing bad in it.”

“I like how clear cut it is,” Merlin said, casting the line again. “I like how simple it is, pure.”

“I believe you.”

Merlin turned his head away from the water and scrutinised him long. “Why don't you come over one of these days and sit for me?”

“Sit for you?”

“Yes, you have a distinctive profile.” Merlin's gaze lingered on Arthur. It was as if he was analysing him for his parts. “I think your silhouette would come along nicely.”

“I'm not sure.” Arthur tapped his foot, the imprint of his toe digging into the soft ground. 

“It's for free,” Merlin told him, fiddling with the reel of his fishing rod. “I'd do a good job.”

“I'm positive you would.” Arthur believed in Merlin's good faith. “I just don't want you to waste your time on me.”

“No time wasted.” Merlin looked at the ripple in the water. For a moment it had seemed to herald a fish, but whatever it had been was no bream or pike. It must have been something so small it wasn't worth catching. Merlin stopped paying attention to it. “I'd be happy to.”

Arthur studied Merlin's countenance and found it didn't belie his words. He seemed rather pleased with his offer, open to Arthur, willing to do this for him as an act of kindness, an extension of friendship. Despite their chequered beginnings, Arthur saw in himself a readiness to accept Merlin's offer, to participate in the fashioning of a relationship between them. It seemed so easy with Merlin, but not facile at all. When he spoke, it was therefore with conviction, “I'll be pleased to sit for you.”

Merlin's line snagged, going taut as it caught something.

 

**** 

 

The afternoon was half past, with shades of pink already colouring the sky and night birds waking up in the trees, when Arthur called on Merlin.

Freya, tugged upon by three children of ranging ages, opened the door. She smiled when she saw him, making him think she'd been expecting him. As she made a sign for him to follow her inside, the children clung to her, pulling her around. “I'm sorry, they're excited because it's playtime for them.”

“I understand,” Arthur said. “I was like that too when I was little.”

“I'll make you some tea,” Freya said, as she shepherded him down the passage. “Children, why don't you go to your uncle? He'll cut some bread for you.”

Arthur watched as the kids ran ahead.

“Come into the kitchen.” Though they were spotless, Freya cleaned her hands on her apron and made way for him. 

Arthur followed her along the narrow but neatly scrubbed passageway. It was unadorned, painted a pale blue, an empty little niche on one side. It soon opened up into a kitchen. It was a bright room equipped with three windows, an hearth, and a large oven, at which Merlin was busying himself. He was extracting a bakery shovel from it, on which rested three golden, large sized loaves of bread, whose crust showed brown and crispy.

“Arthur!” Merlin said, as he rotated on his feet, tipping the shovel so it unloaded the loaves on the table. “I'm so glad you came.”

The smell of baked goods wafted on the air, filling Arthur with longing. He wasn't particularly hungry, though he'd gladly dine in a couple of hours, but the smell itself reminded him of childhood, when he was five or six, and Father's housekeeper used to give him bread between meals on the sly. It had been as golden and aromatic as the loaves Merlin had just shovelled out of the oven. It had been crisp and friable in his mouth. The memory alone touched him with the comfort of familial things.

As Merlin leant the shovel back against the wall, the children came clamouring in, likely enticed by the smells and the promise of a snack just as Arthur had been when he was a little imp. 

Merlin stopped the children from pawing at the bread and said, “Patience, patience nephews and nieces.”

Arthur looked at him as he took a knife and used the blade to cut thick slices, which he gave the waiting children one by one. When all of the children had had theirs, Merlin sheared off a hunk of bread and gave it to Arthur. “We also have jam if you want it.”

Arthur observed the bread he'd been offered. “I think it'll taste better as it is.”

Merlin grinned wide, jovially, toothily. “That's what I think too.” He portioned off wedges for himself and Freya.

The bread tasted divine, warm and soft, crusty and crunchy all at once. Eating his slice was such a simple pleasure that Arthur couldn't help brimming over with elation, with happiness at the simplicity of the moment. It wasn't just the goodness of the bread, it was the memories it was bringing with it, the joy of childhood, the pleasure of straightforward things. 

Then there was Merlin himself, the way he acted around his sister and nephews and nieces. Arthur didn't know the story behind their relationship. He believed Freya a widow by virtue of the absence of any husband that he could see. But in spite of the ignorance, he could tell that Merlin was helpful towards them, paternal, protective.

He encouraged the children to eat in an orderly way and helped them to seconds himself, though he regulated the size of the slices he carved. He told them stories as they ate, fairy tales Arthur had never heard of and that he must have invented off the cuff. They were about prince and princesses, troll and trollesses, knights and damsels, wolves and peasants. They were never scary though there were chilling elements about them. 

When the children were done, Merlin cleaned their hands on a kitchen towel, under Freya's watchful eye. Now at liberty to do what they pleased, the children ran off into the garden to play the rest of the day out. Freya went to the other room to knit. 

Merlin cleaned the utensils he had used and then settled in a chair, nibbling bread that now wasn't as warm as it had been.

“Do you do this often?” Arthur asked.

“I'm an accomplished baker,” Merlin said. “But I don't do it as often as the children like.”

“Still, they got a treat.”

Merlin ate one last piece of the bread he'd made and wiped his hand on a napkin. “Come now, I promised you my work.”

Arthur followed Merlin into the living room, which, he guessed, also served as Merlin's workshop. Merlin bade Arthur sit on a stool and lit a candle that stood on a stool behind him. Then he moved behind a frame to which a sheet hat been attached. “Some silhouette makers are cutters. They cut out the contours of their image and then affix them to a dark background material. I paint my silhouettes. I prefer this method. I find it smoother.”

Not knowing whether Merlin had begun working, Arthur looked ahead and not at him when he spoke, keeping his pose. “I'm happy either way. I wasn't even expecting to have my likeness taken.”

“Silhouette,” Merlin told him, as he picked up a brush. “It's just your contours that you're going to see.”

“I'll be stoked to have it taken.” Arthur wasn't a man for sitting still, but he was looking forward to Merlin's work. Merlin expressed himself that way and Arthur wanted to see what his means of communicating looked like, what impression Merlin had retained of him. 

As he worked, Merlin talked. He talked about Camelot, about art and what he thought of it, about his family and his love for them. “The children are exuberant but they know not to interrupt when I'm working. I mean they'd love to, but they don't because they love me and even though they don't understand what's so important about my dabbling with the arts, they see that it matters to me. I love them for that and all that they are.”

“I'd love to have a family like that.” It had been one of Arthur's most ardent wishes. “But my mother died in childbirth. I have a sister apparently, but she's illegitimate--” Arthur never talked about her because Father had impressed on him what a scandal that was. Opening up about it felt strange but right. “We grew up apart. She hadn't known her father wasn't who she thought he was. I hadn't either. But then the truth came to light and we were made aware. She chose to live her life apart from us. Not that Father made her any practical overtures to welcome her in the family.”

Merlin looked up from his work. “That's very sad.”

“It is.” Arthur had always thought so. “But there's little that can be done about it.”

“You might try to make her see that you'd love to have her as a sister,” Merlin said, brushing away at Arthur's silhouette on canvas. “Then perhaps she'd see that she has a family.”

Arthur thought that reasonable. He had always feared contacting her. But perhaps if he did, she wouldn't rebuff him like she had their father. Maybe they could build something there. “How about your sister?”

Merlin had his eyes on the canvas. “She's widower.” He sighed. “Her husband died eight months after his last child was born. Freya and I were always tight. So she moved back in.”

“It must have taken some adjusting.” Any change in life did, Arthur was aware. He had learnt a lot when he'd moved to the country. He was still adapting to the consequences of that action. He was still reeling. But he was finding his footing here so perhaps had Freya. “I'm sorry for her.”

“She was so young,” Merlin said, touching his black coated brush to the canvas. “Everybody was sorry for her at first. They all cooed over her and asked her over. Most of the time she didn't feel up to it so she refused. But they persisted. Freya went on with her life and learnt to put on a brace face. People thought she was better and the novelty of her loss had rubbed off. So they soon stopped showing their concern.”

Arthur shouldn't have pried into the specifics, but he wanted to understand the situation. It seemed highly important that he did. Merlin belonged to Arthur's new world and so did everyone attached to him. He, at least, was concerned. “Why do you think that happened?”

“Because she wasn't that important to them.” Merlin scratched at a corner of the canvas. His nail came off darkened. “Once I had taken responsibility for her, they washed their hands. People move on more quickly than the bereaved.”

“So Camelot society is much like London society.” Indifferent, a hard world to wade in.

“It's the country.” Merlin put down his brushes. “Not paradise. But Freya's all right now. Over the worst in any case.” 

Arthur didn't comment. He couldn't intrude. Knowing Freya superficially as he did, it wasn't his place to.

Merlin wiped his hands on his waistcoat. “I'm done here.”

Arthur startled. “Already?”

Merlin gave him a smile. “Silhouette making is a swift business. There's no detail.”

Arthur stood. “Well, then.”

Merlin took the canvas and showed it to him. “That's you. At least your profile.”

“It's handsome.” Arthur shifted from foot to foot. Then he realised what he'd said. How could he be so stupid! And what must Merlin think of him? “I didn't mean my profile. But your work.”

Merlin laughed. There was a melodious, gentle quality to it. Like the tinkle of bells but fundamentally deeper. “You wouldn't have been wrong if you'd called your profile handsome.” He looked elsewhere, likely to defuse the embarrassment Arthur felt. “But I understand what you meant.”

Not wanting to smear it, Arthur took the silhouette by the edges and said, “Thank you so much for the present. I'll value it dearly.” Thinking he's gone overboard with his show of emotion, he added- “It's drawing late and I made you work so hard, I suppose I'll go now.”

“No!” Merlin's eyes widened at the abruptness of his own declaration. “I mean stay for dinner. It'll be time for it soon.”

Arthur thought he ought to decline. He'd already taken up Merlin's time and he hadn't even paid him for it. On the other hand he really wanted to spend more time with Merlin, not to have to go back home and to a frugal dinner with Mordred. Above all he craved to hear what Merlin had to say, to observe how he acted in the midst of his family. It fed Arthur's soul, made him feel better, like he, too, could be part of such a circle. “I will,” he said, after some internal debate.

They dined on some simple fare. The dishes were many, but all of them were basic ones, some stewed meats, some boiled root vegetables, cheeses and sweet puddings Freya had made. They had no wine to drink but small beer and lemonade for the children. They dipped their fingers in bowls and cut into softened meat. They scoped out mouthfuls and spooned broth into their mouths. 

All the while they talked. They discussed politics, universal justice, art and its manifestations, the joys they convey. Arthur praised Merlin; Merlin expressed a wish to read Arthur's poetry. Freya said they should have an evening of it, a private reading attended by friends. They quoted from the literature they loved best, rhymes sounding off their mouths, filling the air and making it sweet with words. 

The evening grew ripe. The moon peeked through the window. Their exchanges became sluggish with over use. Arthur knew it was time to part from the lovely company, but when he did it was with a promise they'd all see each other again.

 

**** 

 

Though tired, Arthur didn't go to bed when he got home. With Mordred safely sleeping in his room Arthur had the cottage to himself. He made use of the main room, transferring his writing instruments there, a lit candle creating a glow around him. He dipped his quill in the ink and began writing. Though he'd drunk a little, his mind was clear as to what he meant to put down. The words came to him with an ease that was rare. Before he'd chiselled them, worked at them till he had the perfect sound of them, the perfect form. Tonight they came into being fully formed and already perfectly fitting the context he wanted to have them in.

They flowed; they came in torrents. The clock on the mantelpiece kept moving on and more verses came out of Arthur. His eyelids started drooping, but his brain was still active, so he pushed on, birthing words, putting them in stanzas he liked the sound of. By the time sunlight washed over his writing station, Arthur had composed a series of three interconnected poems. 

They were all about a mystic druid who walked the forests of ancient Britain. He had the power of nature at his beck and call. He could call thunder and make the earth shake. He could conjure butterflies out of thin air and change shape at will. He could take the likeness of a person and make the currents speak with their voice. 

He had set the events in a primal land where freedom reigned, before the Romans, before civilisation, a land of myth that overflowed with possibilities, where people were simple and at one with the world that hosted them.

It wasn't a theme he'd used before. In his earlier works he'd been closer to a classicist sensibility. He'd never indulged in fantasies about mystical lands, nor had he ever idolised the past. But he found himself inclined to indulge himself, to write what his inspiration told him to commit to paper. He was free of fettles now. Or at least imagined he was. He didn't know what had occasioned this change; he only felt its potency at work and didn't resist. Such ease of writing had, after all, escaped him before. He didn't want to find himself returning to his previous condition.

With the dawn, Arthur called himself done. Mordred rose and wandered in in his night clothes. He still looked dazed, with bed hair, and eyes partially glued together by sleep. But Arthur couldn't resist. “Mordred,” he said, “will you listen to my poem?”

Mordred scratched his head, then nodded. 

Arthur wasn't sure he had understood, but he picked up the pages he'd covered in writing, cleared his throat, and started reading. 

Mordred poured himself some milk, and buttered a roll, which he ate almost whole. Slowly he chewed. But he seemed to be listening, which was just what Arthur required. Mordred stuck a glinting spoon in a jar of preserves and brought it to his mouth while Arthur read on. 

By the time he was done, Mordred looked more awake. There was a reactive light in his eyes. By now he was engaging with the words he heard by making small sounds.

When he stopped reading, Arthur asked, “So, what do you think?”

“It's good.” Mordred rooted in the marmalade jar.

Arthur's shoulders sloped. He had given the words his all; he had poured himself into the poem. He'd hoped it was more impactful. “Don't you have more to say?”

“It's really great, Arthur.” Mordred finally looked away from his breakfast. “You should send it to a publisher.”

Arthur put down the papers he had been working on. “Not yet.” He had to have more. A bookful of poems that were just as good as the ones he'd composed ever since moving. “But I will.”

That was a promise he made himself.

***** 

The sun was shining, the sky was like the surface of a mirror, polished and bright, and the week almost at an end. Arthur picked up cane and hat and made his way out. He had no idea where to go, having no fixed plan, but on he walked, swinging his cane, a tune on his lips. Before long he realised he was making for Camelot, and more precisely Merlin's.

He found him in the garden that extended out the back of his bungalow, seated at a table surrounded by a trellis in bloom, blood red flowers all around him. Some of the petals had fallen on the surface of the table. On it stood a cage with a golden bird inside. Merlin opened it and the bird flew to his shoulder. “This is my friend, Taliesin.”

“And very pretty he is,” Arthur found himself saying.

Merlin whistled and the bird hopped onto his hand. “I got him for my nephews, but I think I'm actually more fond of it than they are.” Merlin fed him a crumb. The little golden bird pecked at Merlin's fingers, gobbling up the tiny brown crumb Merlin had offered him, his wings opening and closing with the motion.

“I taught him to kiss me too.” Merlin gazed fondly at the bird, pursing his lips for the animal to flutter upwards and hold his beak to Merlin's lips. 

Arthur found it quite a feat of training, but that was not the dominant thought in his head. He was aware of a prickling senseless jealousy that lanced him from inside. He realised he was wishing he was such a simple creature himself so he could enjoy the easy pleasure of kissing Merlin's lips. It was patently ridiculous. He didn't want to become a beast and he didn't need to kiss Merlin. They were surely only new acquaintances, tentative friends. And yet. 

“I can make him kiss you too,” Merlin said, watching as the bird walked on the table. With a sound Merlin asked him to perch on his finger. He stood and while the the bird spread out his wings he didn't fly away. He stayed on his perch and, as Merlin lifted his hand, his beak connected with Arthur's mouth. It ought to have felt strange but it didn't. Arthur's heart opened up with the love of it. It was like an augury of good things to come, a pact of affection.

“Naturally he's not entirely without ulterior motives,” Merlin told him. “My little bird expects food out of humans and kisses you in the hopes of a reward.”

“Well, he might as well.” Arthur couldn't say he was outraged at the notion.

“As you can see--” Merlin let the bird play around the table. “Nothing and no one is entirely free of desire.”

Arthur swallowed. The implications of that sentence hit him in the solar plexus. The thoughts it gave rise to confused him, filled him with excitable feelings. “I see.” Though perhaps he didn't fully

“It's the way of nature.”

The bird flew from the table to the trees, causing the leaves in it to shake.

“Oh, look, Merlin, your bird is gone.”

Merlin sat back at his little garden table, placing his hands on his thighs. With a shrug he said, “It'll come back, but for him to he needs to be free. It's the choice at the base of all relationships.”

 

**** 

 

Arthur woke early, wrote a poem, and dressed, carefully observing his reflection in the mirror, straightening his cravat and waistcoat. When he was happy with the results, he put the sheet with the poem in the pocket of his riding coat. He borrowed Mordred's horse, a sorry nag that went slow on the easiest of roads, and made for Merlin's.

At the door Freya told him that Merlin wasn't there. Arthur's face correspondingly fell. He asked where Merlin was. Freya barely hid a smile and told him that Merlin had gone to Arthur's place.

“We're at cross purposes,” Arthur said, before doffing his hat to bid his goodbye to Freya.

Remounting, Arthur led his nag back towards his house, hoping to find Merlin there. Like Freya, Mordred told him that he had just missed Merlin. He had indeed called, stayed for tea, but when he saw that Arthur wasn't returning he bid his goodbye. 

Arthur turned around. He had two options here. He could just tie the nag and go back home or find Merlin as he had proposed. The decision was easy. 

He went over the roads Merlin might have chosen. He made it back to the village square, then struck out for the country again, finding a tree-bordered path that lead to the stream. He'd got quite near it when he spied a tall stone construction. 

Intending to explore it, he nudged his horse forward. It was a ruined church without a roof and with tufts of grass replacing the marble stones of the nave. Some walls were still erect, but a few were clearly missing. Arches vaulted in the sky while broken columns vied for it. The sound of the not distant brook resounded among the absent aisles.

Where the transept should have been Merlin sat, his body partly obscured by the tall grass, a sketching pad open on his knees. 

Arthur left the horse to graze and directed his steps towards Merlin, the grass leaving stains on his breeches.

When Arthur's body came between him and the sunlight, Merlin looked up from his drawing. It looked like a draft of the nave. “Arthur!”

“You've been looking for me,” Arthur said, bold enough to say the words.

“I did indeed go call upon you.” Merlin grinned. “But I couldn't find you.”

“But I found you.” Arthur let his gaze dwell on Merlin, on his relaxed posture and welcoming smile. He didn't find his teasing of Merlin awkward, his actions misplaced, though under different circumstances he might have easily. If Merlin hadn't smiled his welcome, if he had minded the interruption, then Arthur wouldn't have been able to find any words. He would have floundered. But they were at his disposal, at the ready, easily deployed. “For which I rejoice.”

“You weren't there,” Merlin told him. “So I decided I'd come here. It's one of my favourite places.”

“I like old churches too.” That was perhaps inane, but Arthur didn't want the conversation to die down.

“It's more than an old church.” Merlin breathed the fresh air. “It's a dissolved monastery that got burned down in Henry VIII's days.”

Merlin showed him around, helped him explore the ancient ruins. He uncovered nooks and crannies, wells and niches. Arthur was astounded though not so much at the beauty of the place, even if it was timeless, as by Merlin's love for it and the way he exhibited it. They made the rounds of it, visited it from top to bottom, when they finally came upon a Gothic arch. It must have been glazed once but it let in the wind now, revealing a view of tossing greenery.

In its shadow Merlin kissed him softly on the lips, waiting for a return of passion. Arthur took his mouth with fervour then, because he had been waiting for this, because he had been hoping for this. The kiss was slow but sublime. Even the beauty of poetry couldn't rival it. It locked them together like a perfect rhyming couplet, it matched them like two words alliterating.

It waxed and waxed till it Arthur got dazed with it, forgetting about time and space, and everything else that was not Merlin.

Arthur pressed his lips to Merlin's neck, where it arched away, where the skin was pale and soft. He trailed hands in a path that cut across his torso, from the peak of his shoulders to the width of his chest, till they stood body to body, their breath shared just like their warmth. 

Perhaps Arthur should have thought before letting himself go, but he couldn't think of a situation in which he'd say no to Merlin, in which he'd deny himself. Their relationship would change, but then again relationships morphed all the time. 

In the meanwhile Arthur meant to enjoy this, bless his stars for this happening. He was already losing his mind because of it, instinct taking over instead of rationality. He was tired of being sensible anyway. Listening to his father's advice had worn him out. No repercussions mattered. He was living the moment. 

Arthur cupped Merlin's cheek and touched his lips to his again and again, sometimes allowing the kiss to deepen, sometimes not. 

Merlin asked for more. He did so with his words and his body. Arthur took him up on it. Wildly, they undressed each other, fingers undoing the knots of cravats, and unbuttoning the rows of buttons that sealed their shirts. When their skin was bared, Arthur gasped with the new sensations that involved. His breath came in quicker shorter pants; his heartbeat sounded in his ears, a serrated rhythm that dictated his actions. The sight of Merlin made him feel a keen need, a hunger he processed with all his being, at the pit of his stomach, in his heart, and in his brain. 

They lay down on the ground and kissed each other's bodies while baring their legs and feet, touching flesh with their mouths, caressing hard and soft spots with the open palm of a hand. Fingers tightened in Arthur's hair, another's warmth seeping into him.

Arthur's back touched the ground whilst Merlin's open-mouthed kisses covered his chest, undoing Arthur so he was nothing more than his primal parts, the natural essence of his being. Arthur's head dropped back as if he had no more power to withstand Merlin's touch, his legs parted and his body welcomed Merlin's weight.

Merlin touched his legs with his hand, his fingertips running down the side of his thighs in a ghosting caress that made Arthur tremble. It was light and gentle, questing, but also purposeful. Merlin went easy when he opened him, kissing him in between bouts to sweeten any discomfort.

Arthur was winding himself up on passion, on ideas of love. Merlin kissed the jut of his hipbone, the head of his cock, nibbling underneath it, making Arthur tremble imperceptibly. Merlin topped him and Arthur inhaled the close, intimate smell of him. 

Because he wanted to gentle their coupling, Merlin slipped his fingers inside him once again. The touch had more of an aim now, was geared to coax pleasure. Arthur found himself making noises. He would have tried to bite them down, but he saw no sense in it, for he felt no shame, no bashfulness, only clear and open desire. He told Merlin, told him in words that were short and to the point, words that came from deep inside. 

Arthur breathed when Merlin's cock replaced his fingers. When Merlin pushed past the initial resistance Arthur discovered a new kind of closeness, a resilient feeling of longing deep inside him, that made Arthur look at Merlin's face, made him memorise its shape and quirks, its looks. He observed Merlin's softened mien, the surprised expression etched between his eyebrows, the wonder in his eyes and experienced it too, Merlin's match in this, moment for moment. Then Merlin braced himself above him and Arthur prepared himself for the onslaught of feelings. 

With the effort Merlin's cheeks had reddened, his eyes had become bright, and as he thrust into Arthur, his expression got by degrees sweeter and more dazed. Before the wave of pleasure came, Arthur wondered if this was as good for Merlin as it was for him. He must believe so; couldn't think otherwise. The act itself was bound to bring joy, relief. But it meant more to Arthur and perhaps it did to Merlin as well. It looked as though he was as involved as Arthur, his breathing fast, his skin flushed from head to toe with especially bright spots in the face. Murmuring words of endearment Arthur only half understood, Merlin flattened his hips against him. A keen point of pleasure bubbled inside Arthur. Taking it without coming was hard. He wanted to wait, drag it out, make it last.

As though he'd guessed, Merlin eased back, dragging his cock away from Arthur in a slow movement that made Arthur see stars. Arthur rode it out, touched himself, half closed his eyes. Merlin was still going slow, rolling his hips and pushing them forward. By then Arthur was on the brink of losing it; of coming undone. He could make out the tell tale signs. Warmth was developing inside him; pleasure intensified to the point it was a sword double edged with pain. 

It was as if Merlin had tracked those signs too, as if he somehow knew of them, because he started stroking Arthur, starting a process Arthur couldn't undo. His blood rushed along his veins and heated his body; the sound of it made itself felt in his ears. Merlin's thumb moved across Arthur's crown, sending Arthur's nerve endings on fire. What he was experiencing here wasn't wholly brand new, but it was as surprising as though it was. It was different, seasoned with love and sweetness. Emotion soaked him, worked through him. It was in every single movement of Merlin's body against his, of his hand on him. 

It was a rare and precious feeling, one Arthur knew to treasure and make his. He'd remember this. But that was about the future. He couldn't look past the moment now, past the physical bliss he was experiencing. So he let go, let himself wander unmoored. It was easy at that point. He'd made an effort to put a cap to his need to come, stifling it. But no more.

Arthur flew apart then; felt himself crystallise in a thousand tiny pieces, all of them jagged. Relief came at him in a flood, in a cloud of happiness. It enveloped him quickly, lifting him up in an ethereal cloud he couldn't come down from. 

With the little breath he had left Arthur asked Merlin to take his turn. The message came across. Merlin squeezed his eyes, pursed his mouth, and went in a world of his own. His rhythm increased, his pace got wilder till it splintered and Merlin came with a sigh. As he settled in Arthur's arms spasms worked through him. His breathing was still coming fast, so Arthur waited for it to settle before speaking. He needed that moment for himself anyway. He needed to find his own centre, his own balance.

“I'm happy this happened.” He would admit as much partly because it was the truth and partly because he hoped they would find each other in the same circumstances and that they could have a repeat performance.

“Me too.” Merlin kissed his neck, soft, his lips giving.

As the wind picked up they wrapped themselves in each other's bodies instead of picking up their clothes. They probably should have because someone might have chanced on them, but nudity felt more natural now, more comforting, a means to maintain the closeness they'd just abdicated. 

“I think it was destiny that made us find each other,” Merlin said.

“What?” Arthur was still being slow from the pleasure. “You mean today or?”

“In general.” Merlin had his mouth on Arthur's skin so the words were mumbled. “I think we were meant to be.”

Arthur was inclined to believe Merlin was right. Ever since meeting him he had felt a renewed momentum, a new strength. Writing was easier, being himself was easier. Merlin's influence couldn't have been that massive, yet it was pervasive. “There's something I want to read out to you,” Arthur said and, rooting in the pocket of his discarded clothing, he found the piece of poetry he'd always meant for Merlin.

 

***** 

 

Arthur wrote the final words to his poem and sanded the paper. Then he took the sheet and put it on top on his stack of writing. When he had a neat, numbered pile, he tied it with ribbon, enclosing a card with a publisher's address. 

When he wrote the last of it out, he sighed. There, he was done. He would now have to walk to the post office and actually send it. 

The answer he got would be based on a variety of factors. But if his writings were declined, his father would be proved correct. He would keep maintaining that the life of an artist wasn't for Arthur, that he had no talent, that he would be no Milton, no Pope. He would have to concede. 

A return to the life he had led would make him miserable. There would be no Camelot, no contact with nature, no Merlin. He would lose all that in favour of a purposeless London life. 

No, he had to make it. He had to prove to his father he had the wherewithal to be a poet. If this publisher didn't accept his submission, then he would try another. He'd somehow stay afloat even with no income. He'd prove he meant what he'd said.

So he stood, picked up the bundle, and walked out.

 

***** 

Arthur knocked on Merlin's door, sidling from side to side, his hand going to his pocket again and again. 

One of the children opened. 

Arthur bent down a little and asked, “Is your uncle inside?”

The boy stuck a finger in his mouth, looked up at him out of big eyes, then nodded. He ran into the house, leaving the door open. Seeing as there was little else he could do, Arthur stepped inside and secured the door. He left hat and cane by the hat stand and made it deeper into the house.

The fire was crackling gustily in the fireplace. The children were gathered around Merlin, who was sitting on the floor, with a book in his lap. His head was reclined against the sofa behind him and his eyes were closed. He must have nodded off while recounting some tale to his nephews and nieces. 

Arthur wasn't sure what to do. Merlin seemed tired and he probably needed his quiet. Then again Arthur had come for a reason and he wasn't sure he had it in himself to wait. His pocket felt like it was burning. His hands trembled with the effort to stay put, not to reach out.

He was about to retreat however, when the sound he made woke Merlin. 

“Arthur,” he said, giving him a pleased smile. “You're here!”

“Your nephew let me in.”

Merlin flashed him a second, more lopsided grin. “As he should have. You're our favourite guest and always welcome.”

“I can come back later.” Arthur was ready to acknowledge he might have arrived at an awkward time.

“No, no.” Merlin made space for him on the floor. “Come sit by the fire. It's warm here.”

So coaxed, Arthur threw all hesitation to the wind. He moved close to Merlin, among the nest of children, and sat crossed-legged by him, the warmth of so many people around him working itself inside him. “You're right. It's so pleasant here.”

“So why have you come?” Merlin pushed up a lone eyebrow.

“Can't I seek you out?” They had, after all, met most days of the week ever since they'd come together. They had often gone for walks, climbs, and Merlin had poked his head in at his quite often. In the same guise of an evening,Arthur would chance by Merlin's, dropping in a gift for Freya, or a treat for the children. But Merlin must have a sixth sense about him, for was right; this was no ordinary circumstance. Arthur was here for a very specific reason tonight. 

“Mmm,” Merlin said. “Of course you can. But you know you can share if you want to.”

Arthur rooted in his pocket. “See this envelope.” He held it up so Merlin could gaze at it. “It's from the publisher I sent my manuscript to.”

Merlin looked more keenly at it. “Oh.”

Arthur wetted his lips. “I haven't opened it yet. But when I do, I'll find out if my submission has been accepted or declined.”

Merlin grabbed his arm. “You must open it then.”

Arthur nodded. “I wanted to be with you when I did.”

Merlin's touch became more buoying, more comforting. “That's very sweet. You know I'll be by your side whatever happens, don't you?”

Arthur was aware. It was half the reason he had made up his mind to read the letter at all. He gestured to signal that he did. 

“So go on.”

With trembling fingers Arthur broke the seal and opened the letter. His eyes skimmed over the lines until his gaze landed on the following sentence. “We are glad to inform you that we have accepted your publication submission and we intend to print your work into a volume of poetry.” 

Arthur jumped to his feet. Seeing him do this, Merlin and the children followed his example. Merlin gathered him close, shouting his congratulations. The young ones hugged Arthur's legs till Arthur was enveloped in a warm circle of love.

The End


End file.
